"It was not the size or demeanor of the bears that troubled me—they looked almost comically nonaggressive, like four guys who had gotten a Frisbee caught up a tree—but their numbers. Up to that moment it had not occurred to me that bears might prowl in parties. What on earth would I do if four bears came into my camp? Why, I would die, of course. Literally shit myself lifeless. I would blow my sphincter out my backside like one of those unrolling paper streamers you get at children's parties—I daresay it would even give a merry toot—and bleed to a messy death in my sleeping bag." ― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

: :

Wednesday, the 22nd of December
3:54 PM, Emmett, I continue to skim through your Bill Bryson books. And forget Andrew Lloyd Webber. You have a fuck-ton of glorious soundtrack, and then… Ms. Spears? Was it a dare or do you jog with her like I do? We need to talk.

Emmett, do you even notice that I take my time to write down all those quotes from all those books you own by Bill Bryson? Your favorite author? Oh, you didn't? You noticed only now? That's too bad. I finished reading A Short History of Nearly Everything and now I'm starting with the others because who else talks about shitting yourself lifeless?

Sometimes I wonder if my life serves a bigger purpose. Then I use expressions like 'shit yourself lifeless,' and I realize… nope. No, it doesn't.

Yesterday was spent cleaning our house from top to bottom (yeah, Emmett was extremely happy about that), and when we were finished with that, I had the honor of picking a movie for us. They can never agree on a movie, so I oftentimes make the decision for them. I chose Twelve Angry Men (1957), which dad and Emmett really seemed to love. Hey, it's a great movie.

But I had an epiphany today, a real one, and if my diary serves any purpose at all, I am convinced this has to be written here. I had a rather… enlightening conversation with dad a few minutes ago. I went to help him make dinner, and we talked.

Sounds fascinating, huh?

So, since we're having dinner with both Cullen families—the Cullen–Hales and the Cullens—tonight (I can't wait to hear how Edward's meeting with his sister went!), dad wanted to make mom's lasagna and Caesar salad and everything delicious. I offered to help, and he was quite relieved about that. Not that he wouldn't have done the whole thing himself. He would have. But I'd already jogged and packed my stuff and taken my posters down and I'm starting to realize I won't see dad for four and a half months. We've never been apart for so long before.

"Dad?"

He looks up.

"I googled U.S. Marshal Service."

He smiles. "And what did you find?"

"I found that you can't get in unless you're 36 or younger."

"That is true."

"But you're 37."

"I got accepted in the middle of September, three weeks before my birthday," he answers. "What else did you find?"

"It's fiercely competitive." I hesitate. "I'm insanely proud that you got in, dad, but—don't hurt yourself, okay?"

Dad chuckles as if I'd said something entirely too funny. "Why, Bella, are you calling me old?" he asks, and he's smiling. "Why do you think I spent as much time training as I did? I don't want you worrying about me. I wouldn't have gotten in unless they thought I could do it."

I can see the source of my determination. It's dad. He's just like me.

"No, I didn't mean that. I know you more than deserved to get in. I just—you're all we've got, you know? You lost your parents during your teenage years, mom's mother died when we were toddlers, her father was never in the picture… you're all we have."

He's touched by my concern, I can tell. For a moment, he pulls me to his side and squeezes my shoulder.

"It's just training. Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise. I'm still a phone call away, we only need to agree on a time and we can talk whenever I have free time."

"Which is, like, never."

He laughs. "No, I think we'll be able to talk a few times a week."

We resume to chopping. I'm chopping carrots, dad is slicing chicken.

"I can't figure out how you're suddenly so cool about me staying with the Cullens."

"Shouldn't I be?"

"Yes, of course you should, but I mean—you were on the verge of shooting Edward when we spent the night in 106, and now you're suddenly cool about me staying with them for over four months. I just don't get it."

"I figured, you two, you're friends, right?"

Unless I can make him magically fall in love with me? Sure.

"Yes."

"And nothing is happening between you beyond that?"

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Well, that escalated quickly.

"No," I answer. "But someone did ask me out."

"Oh?" He's surprised.

"Yeah. His name is Laurent. He's a senior. Emmett's friend. They have football together."

"Do you like him?"

"He's cool. I don't know him well enough to judge."

"Just be careful, okay?"

"Dad," I remind him. "We can skip The Talk. It was awkward enough the last time."

He smiles. It was.

"Dad?"

"Yes, honey?"

I smile at his term of endearment. "Have you ever felt like something is right under your nose but you never noticed? Like, haven't really paid any attention to it?"

He looks down at himself. "Are you referring to the fact that there's sour cream on my T-shirt?"

I chuckle, watching as he chooses to ignore blob of white on his shirt. "No, I mean, have you had moments when life seems to have passed you by and never got around to taking you with it?"

He pauses, but only for a second. "What brought this on?"

"There's so much I've never noticed before, you know? Like, at school, everyone is so concerned with getting attention from the opposite sex. I never noticed. It's like a giant match-maker's paradise or something. And then, don't take this the wrong way, but I never really thought about you as an individual but only as my dad, as if that's your only purpose. It sounds egoistic, I know, but I just—I never thought about it like that before. I'm only a small part of your life."

"A very important part, Bella."

"No—I didn't mean it like that," I say. "I didn't mean to undermine my importance in your life. Or yours in mine."

"You mean that nothing has really changed, just the way you see them?"

"Yeah," I agree. "That's exactly what I mean."

"We only tend to notice things that matter to us," dad says, smiling without showing his teeth. "I bet you have tons of stuff in your life that you're not writing into that diary of yours."

I feel myself pale. "Have you—have you read it?"

He makes sure to lock eyes with me before answering. "No, Bella, I haven't. You've fallen asleep on it a few times, and I've closed it for you. It's neither my job as your father or as a person to keep tabs on you. I trust you to share with me what you want to share, and I'll return the favor."

"You—you're so amazing, dad."

He laughs, and there are a few premature wrinkles next to his eyes. "You say that like you're surprised." Dad is teasing me, and I love it. "So you perceive things differently now. It's only natural. Do you have something that you barely ever write about in your diary?"

I take a moment to really think about it.

"Clothes, make-up," I say, smiling. "Internet."

Dad looks up from his slicing and smiles. It's so genuine. "See? We only notice things we care about. Clearly you don't care enough about what you wear to write about it. Maybe one day you will. We all have roles in our lives, and the roles change. What matters to us, that changes with us. It doesn't mean you aren't true to yourself, it just means you're growing as a person."

Holy shit, my dad is a fucking Dalai Lama in disguise.

"Dad?"

"Honey?"

"Has it ever bothered you that I'm not like a normal girl?"

"Was there a manual about being a girl that I missed?" he asks. "A normal one?"

"You didn't get it? Damn. I knew there was a reason I lack any sense of propriety."

He chuckles. "No, Bella, normal or not, I think you're wonderful." And he gives me this sincere, almost silly-looking grin, looking completely serious at the same time, and I take a moment to really think about his words and the truth behind them. I used to think when he told me there's nothing wrong with the way I look, that I look nice, whatever, that he was just trying to reassure an insecure teenager, just to make me feel better about myself, but for the first time, I realize he actually means it. He's not trying to reassure. He's not trying to be nice, either.

How come it never occurred to me that how I look simply... doesn't matter? That it's possible to just—not notice? Dad just said so himself: we only notice the things that matter to us. So maybe, he doesn't even notice? Like, he knows me as a person and still likes me for who I am?

I feel like I just discovered Easter Island. It's mysterious and exciting and I want to know more about the mo'ai on it.

Is this what Edward was trying to imply? That, yes, there's how you look, but then there's how you behave and think and act and react—that should come to the equation, too, right? I always notice those things when I observe other people, I always do. But I've felt like it doesn't apply to me, that I should've been born pretty so that maybe mom would've shown more affection toward me. But what if it wasn't because of that at all? What if she was simply not the type of person to show affection, period?

Okay, no, a question mark.

But still. What if it has absolutely nothing to do with my looks? I could've born just like her, wide eyes and pretty curves and two dimples (I only have one), and we would've still been different because my appearance still wouldn't have been my priority?

Well, fuck.

Is that what they mean? That if you get to know someone, really know them, your personality becomes such a big part of who you are that how you look is a mere technicality?

Is that it?

That's all I've been so anxious and stressed about?

That's it?

Well, fuck.

That was anticlimactic.

And I burst into laughter. I literally burst into laughter at nothing at all, grasping a carrot as I put down my knife, and I just laugh like there's no tomorrow. Tears streaming down my face, clutching onto my stomach, crouching over the kitchen counter, not really noticing how my dad feels about my burst of feelings because I have tears in my eyes kind of laughter. I laugh. I'm so liberated, like the weight of the world has just been pulled off my shoulders, like I could fly like an eagle or a sparrow or fuck—superman! Whoever the fuck!

It doesn't matter! It really, seriously, truly doesn't!

He doesn't see it because he genuinely doesn't care! And people who are worth getting to know won't care!

I didn't discover Easter Island. I discovered a fucking world right now!

"Dad," I say finally, wiping my face into the sweater I'm wearing. "Dad, I just had an epiphany."

I raise my head to look at him, and he's staring at me. He's amused and he's grinning, but at the same time, he's got a faint frown on his face.

"But I—I always tell you you're wonderful. Haven't you heard me?"

"I heard you, but I didn't listen, dad," I say. "I didn't listen."

I elated. If I want to, I can become the best fucking actress the world has ever seen! They'll write about my appearance, then get to know me, and if I'm a decent enough human being who isn't afraid of hard work, it won't matter at all. It won't matter. They'll see it, they'll comment, and they'll get over it.

They'll get over it.

"Wait," dad says. "All those times I've told you there's nothing wrong with the way you look—you never believed me? Not once?"

"No, dad," I reply, with that dopey grin of mine.

He looks horrified, there's no other word for that semi-gasping expression.

"But, Bella—did you not think I meant it? Did you think I was lying to you?"

"You don't get it, dad. I wasn't in a position in my life to listen to you. This has nothing to do with how you've raised me and everything to do with how I simply did not understand what you meant. You could've told me a hundred times yesterday, and I would've thought you were trying to reassure me. But you're not. You genuinely think so."

He's confused. "Of course I do, Bella. You're such a wonderful girl. I couldn't have asked for a more original and genuine girl if I created you myself."

"You did create me, dad."

"I did, huh?" He becomes a little bashful. "And I did good. You're wonderful, Bella. You are."

I grin and curtsy. "Thank you, dad. So are you."

Fuck, no, I'm not going to burn my diary, I cherish this memory too much. I'll read it every day if I have to so that I remember what's important in life.

And Emmett, now that I know dad knows I'm writing this, I have no doubt you're aware as well. So if you've read it but never commented, I think I have to admit I don't give you enough credit. Thank you for not teasing me mercilessly.

But the doorbell rang—the Cullen's must've arrived! I'll continue later.

A/N: Gentle snow is falling and the sea ice is yearning for me to put my skates on. I'll see if my brothers are up to skating to the isles.

You're all amazing. :)